Changeling
by Feste the Fool
Summary: John Watson was born dead. Things went downhill from there. First story in an old serial involving faery!Victorian England, Changeling!Watson, Siren!Unaware!In-Over-His-Head!Holmes, and a big scary dog.


**Reviewing some of my old stuff and thought I'd do a bit of cross-posting. This story is the first (although chronologically the second) in a short, fantasy-AU-gaslight-faery serial starring our favorite army doctor and consulting detective duo as humans in over their heads. This one was an introductory/expository piece sort of panting a picture of the world, sort of, which is pretty much the Victorian obsession with the occult meets the actual Victorian age, only the Other World has always been there...Oh, just read.**

** Originally written for the 2011 July Writing Prompt festival on Watson's Woes, for the prompts "Supernatural" and "Superstition." The main superstition is that if a pregnant woman looks at the full moon, she'll go into labor, although most of the conclusions Watson draws about Holmes come from superstitions relating how a person looks to their personality. For instance, long ears signify musical inclinations, while grey eyes signifies a strong, healthy soul and a potential for genius. Also, superstitions regarding the general spectacular-ness of cauls. **

**Long story short, my New Year's gift to you. Enjoy!**

* * *

The labor began at five-thirty, exactly corresponding with the rise of a dusk-darkening full moon. A midwife was called rather than a doctor, a wizened old woman, wise in her ways. She took one look at the moon hanging in the afternoon sky and crossed herself twice, first in the way of the Catholics, second in the way of the Ancients. Full moons meant moon-labored mothers, and shadows, and wickedness before the night was through.

The mother's father stood at the door. He watched the midwife's motions and shivered. He too remembered the older times, faintly, in stories. He retreated to his bedroom and pulled his own grandfather's caul out of its box before moving back outside the birthing room. Clutching it tightly, he began to pray.

The great-great-grandfather may have been a caul-baby, but at midnight, this infant was born dead. The midwife cursed and crossed herself again while the mother screamed and the father wept. The older brother slept through it all. The midwife met the grandfather's gaze, still holding the bluing boy in her arms. She glanced down at the caul in his hands and nodded, face turning grim, holding the baby out to him. The grandfather took him and ran out the door, down the road, into the night.

He fell to his knees when he at last found running water. He placed the dead child by the brook and began to scrub his hands in the creek with the caul. As he scrubbed, he chanted.

_"Fire and lightning, soil and stone_

_Silver and iron, blood and bone,_

_Water and heather, wind and rain,_

_Brightness and dark, I call your name!_

_Whisper-In-Winter, Truth-In-Guile,_

_War-In-Autumn, Hangman's-Mile,_

_Snow-In-Summer, Drought-In-Spring,_

_Come now from your Faery Ring!"_

_"What sound do I hear?" _came a bone-chilling hissing voice.

"Th-the voice of one who c-calls you."

A figure rose from the water and collected shape in the mist. It looked human woman…but _different _in some way that made you realize in an instant that this was no human. "_And why have you called me?" _she hissed.

He trembled as he drew his hands from the water and lifted up the baby. "Please…my grandson. He is not yet an hour old."

The thing solidified. She leaned forward, sniffed the corpse, and snorted. "The child is dead." This time, her voice was strong and clear.

"What does human death matter to your kind?" he countered quickly.

Sniffing once more, she lifted the infant from his arms and examined him. "It will cost you. The caul you used to summon me. And the child."

The grandfather swallowed. He had known what her payment would be, but it didn't make it any easier. "What about the child?"

She smiled, showing hideous, twisting, pointed teeth. "The boy belongs to me. As his moon rises, he will be mine. As it falls, he will return to you."

"I…I don't understand…"

"Look at the moon, human," she snapped. "So glorious and full. He is a moon-labor-child. It is only fitting for him to be my Changeling at each full moon." She drew the caul out of the water and wrapped it around the infant's head. She then lowered him into the creek and began to sing, soft and low. As she sang, the water glowed, and the baby turned pink with breath. When she pulled him out again and removed the caul, he burst into loud, healthy tears, eyes clenched tightly shut.

The grandfather began to gasp, half with laughter, half with sobs.

The woman waved her hand over the creek bank. A rose bush sprang up and bloomed, a single white bloom erupting from the highest branch. She pulled a petal from the rose, bit her lip, and spat. Saliva and blood mingled and spread. She shed a tear and caught it, adding it to the mixture before smearing the petal onto the infant's left eye.

_"See, my beautiful new pet,"_ she whispered in that same frightening hiss. _"See in the old ways, see as I do. Open your eye to the Other World."_

The child fell completely silent, his eyes snapping open and widening. She leaned down and whispered something in his ear before returning him to his grandfather.

"What have you named him?" he asked, holding the quiet baby close.

She smiled again. "I would never tell the likes of you his true name. You may call him whatever you like…as long as there is an H. Now go. You have wasted enough of my time." Already she was sinking back into the water.

"Thank you," the grandfather called, moving backward toward the house. "We will never forget—"

Her eyes snapped and focused on him for the first time—terrible, blank eyes, they were, and his breath hitched. "See that you don't," she growled. "_He_ certainly never will." Her form once again grew misty and vague. "_I will come for him at the next full moon. Remember. He belongs to me!"_

* * *

John H. Watson entered his hotel room and collapsed into the chair behind the desk. He closed his eyes and pressed one hand against his temples, cringing at the headache beginning to settle. It was exhausting, trying to acclimate himself to London's peculiarities.

A cold, wet nose pushed itself into his other hand, forcing a chuckle out of him. "I know, Whist, boy. London's not what either of us pictured. But I think it might get better from here." He stroked the dog's head before turning his full attention to the mirror over the desk.

"Godmother," Watson said, rapping his knuckles impatiently. "I need to speak with you."

Nothing happened that could be perceived with mortal eye, yet Watson could suddenly see the reflection of his Blue Hag "Godmother" behind him. He knew if he turned around she would not be there. Her corporeal appearances were far more dramatic than messages like this. Her skin was tightly wrinkled today, and tinted with blue—the hate-loving, spiteful part of her triple being. _The perfect end to a tiring day,_ thought Watson with a sigh. "What do you want, changeling?" she demanded.

He took a deep breath and gripped the dog's fur. "Just verification, Godmother. I met someone today who would like to go halves with me for a flat on Baker Street."

Her blue eyes swirled and darkened in the mirror, sending chills down his spine. "What someone?"

Watson began to speak, ignoring the sweat trickling down the back of his neck. "As I said, I only met him today—"

"You read his face, didn't you?" she snapped.

He paused. "…If you'd let me finish," he said quietly. "From what I read and what he said, he's an observant human, a genius. He has a habit of melancholy, a strong soul, musical and artistic ability, a tendency to lie or act out, a talent for breaking into things, an incredible amount of focus, and a warm heart in hiding,. He likes sensational news and is not from London originally. _And_ I think there's something Other Worldly about him—he was being followed by over two dozen Piskies, although he never noticed them. His name is Sherlock Holmes."

"And you would like permission to go halves with him?"

Watson shrugged. "As you like. It would make life easier."

She scoffed, tossing her proud, blue head. "What did you tell _him?_"

"That I get up at all hours and have a tendency to disappear."

"Sherlock Holmes, you say?" She cocked her head as if listening to something far away. "Yes, the fool-skeptic with siren song in his blood."

"He's a magic _magnet? _Without a _guardian?_"

She shook her head, staring intensely at him. "You are a moon-child and a changeling and you want to live with one tainted with siren song who knows and cares nothing for the Shadow Realms?" She clicked her tongue at him. "That's…interesting."

"I'm running out of choices, Godmother. And funds."

"You never run out of choices."

"No?"

"You could always stay with us."

"_No_."

"You sound _ungrateful _today, my changeling."

"I'm sorry, Godmother." Watson's blood ran cold.

"You'd best be. I can take back your favors, you know. The _bullet-stop_, the _healing_, the _Sight_." Her voice grew angrier and more hiss-like with each word, and her reflection grew larger until she dwarfed him. She barely looked human now. She was shadow and mist, wild eyes and horns. "The only thing I can't take away is your grandfather's caul-life, but I doubt you'd survive losing your fingers and your eye, much less your shoulder a second time."

"I said I'm _sorry,_ Godmother." He fought to keep his voice still and steady. She hated pleading. "I am grateful to you. I just cannot live the rest of my life in the Shadow Realms, that's all. I'm still human. I belong here."

She glared a moment longer before sinking back to normal size. "…You may stay with the Holmes-siren if you like," she said finally. "But it will cost you. Three extra days with me this month. And don't expect any more…_favors…_for some time." She was gone before he could say another word.

Watson sighed and slumped down further in the chair, glancing at the dog. "Well, that could have gone better. Or worse."

The great beast huffed, its jaundice-colored eyes flickering like a candle.

"You know, Whist, I told him I kept a bull-pup. Not a Seelie-Sidhe shape-shifting Black Angus Death Hound."

The dog shook its head, trembling, shrinking, _changing._ Watson laughed. "We'll have this poor man in Bedlam before the first rent is due!"

The bull dog puppy at his side barked in agreement.


End file.
